


Don't Let Go

by Benedictorium



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:56:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benedictorium/pseuds/Benedictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the man with no beliefs. No god to worship, no higher power to praise. No faith in Heaven, unfazed by the prospect of Hell. He does not ponder upon how the universe began, or if it will ever end. He is a man with no beliefs.<br/>But he did believe in one thing, one singular thing.<br/>He believed in John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 2013 film 'Gravity'. 
> 
> I don't claim to know much about astrophysics, as much as I love it. I don't quite know if the sources from which I got this information are legitimate, therefore, just for the sake of story-telling, assume that everything in the fic is fact. 
> 
> I do not mean to offend any one with Sherlock's agnostic views. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply, I do not own any of the characters seen in this fic.

How abysmal mornings were to Sherlock. He was never really a morning person.

But then again, who is?

He couldn’t bear the prospects of getting up at this untimely hour of six-o’clock in the morning, even if that means he’ll miss his daily cup of tea provided by Mrs Hudson, always situated right beside his chair on a nice little tray, sometimes with a few biscuits on a separate plate.

That didn’t matter to him anymore.

There’s no-one there to greet him when he wakes up.

* * *

Sherlock hasn't left his apartment for a month. His friends, more specifically Molly, tried their best to get him out of this pit of misery he calls his home, and start living life again.

But how could he possibly live life without him?

Sherlock let his emails pile up. He scarcely checked them anyway, and when he did, their pitiful cries for help and assistance did not interest him in the least. The same-old murder, the ‘tragic’ love affair, the mysterious suicide. God, they got annoying.

Everything was annoying.

A woman sent a rather haphazard email promising an immense sum of money if Sherlock could get to the bottom of her wealthy husband’s suicide. She found the whole ‘debacle’ extremely suspicious as he was a very happy man with two children and a faithful wife. She had attached a few photos that she requested from the investigators: there were faint signs of a struggle judging by the few barely-visible bruises around the neck of the victim. She further went on to explain how the forensics team found cyanide in his system, suggested to have been self-digested by the police.

But do the authorities ever get these things right?

They didn’t make theories to suit the facts; they used the facts to suit theories.

He believed that the woman murdered her husband, forcefully getting him to ingest the cyanide. The bruising suggested that she grabbed him by the neck, making him swallow the cyanide orally; the form of the pill was his best bet. She needed to cover up the evidence of foul-play, using makeup to cover up the bruises as best as she could before the police got there. She definitely had motive; it was likely that she, unlike her husband, was extremely unhappy, possibly had another man to pass the time, and got tired of having to hide her affair. Perhaps she was greedy and wanted the enormous wealth her husband had, certainly a great incentive to kill.

Either way, he’s confident that he’s solved the case without leaving the comfort of his flat.

He didn’t bother replying back, it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing did.

* * *

It was a dreary existence; this monotonous routine Sherlock now calls his life. Sleeping, waking, eating (some days, he doesn’t even feel like eating), sleeping. Repeat.

He didn’t want to be conscious.

He didn’t want to be alive.

He had faith.

He had him.

He wasn’t the one to let go.

* * *

Sherlock had a strong disdain for everything that was outside the physical world that he (debatably) lived and breathed in. He trusted what he saw with his own eyes, and deduced what he could. It was hard enough with real people, tangible objects and believable scenarios, but the ethereal? That, he could not comprehend.

Sherlock Holmes, the man with no beliefs. No god to worship, no higher power to praise. No faith in Heaven, unfazed by the prospect of Hell. He does not ponder upon how the universe began, or if it will ever end. He is a man with no beliefs.

But he did believe in one thing, one singular thing.

He believed in John Watson.

* * *

He could still hear John’s laughter echo in the empty, dust-ridden hallways of 221B Baker Street. His scent still lingered in the atmosphere of the apartment, suffocating Sherlock, adding fuel to a flame that devoured the inner sanctum of Sherlock’s thoughts. His double bed hasn’t been touched; sheets unwrinkled. He hasn’t touched anything in his room. The jumpers he used to adore and treasure are still folded neatly on his rickety old chair just beside the fire place. They were beginning to gather dust. 

With what was left of his smashed heart and his roaring mind, as ridiculous and as insane as it sounded, he still believed that John Watson, his best friend, was coming back, nonchalantly waltzing through the door as if nothing’s happened.

But that was just a ludicrous fantasy designed to lull Sherlock to sleep, soothing the demons that dwell in his mind, calming the storms of anguish they surge inside him.

Never-ending cycles of self-pity are slowly, but surely, abolishing the god-complex Sherlock spent years of isolation to build.

He was no longer the arrogant, self-righteous man who believed in the desolation of emotion and heart from the mind.

He is a broken man waiting for the impossible to come home.

* * *

Molly had stopped by one rainy night to check up on Sherlock. She didn’t quite know what to expect; half of her wished that he was on a case and busily jumping around, tacking papers on the wall. Distracted.

But she knew that he wouldn’t be doing any of that for a while… If ever.

Thankfully, she had a spare key to their apartment; she didn’t need to bother Mrs Hudson to let her in.

Stopping by the flat door, she took a deep breath. This was the first time in months that she’s mustered up the courage to come back here.

Molly discovered Sherlock curled up in a ball on his couch, dressed in his favourite blue dressing gown, coddling something tightly in his arms.

“God…”

It was obvious that it would’ve been a terrible idea to wake Sherlock up, but she went to take a closer inspection of the man and what he was holding so closely to his chest.

“Oh, Sherlock…” she whimpered out, voice trembling; pity.

Sherlock redefined the definition of mess. He reeked of old aftershave; dark eye-bags decorated his face; his hair curlier than ever from the lack of a good wash.

But what hit Molly’s heart the most was what he was cradling in his thin, pale arms.

John’s favourite jumper.

* * *

“Sherlock Holmes, the man with the world beneath his feet, the man with the British government by his side. Sherlock Holmes, the man devoid of emotion, devoid of feeling. Sherlock Holmes, the man who prides himself on his lack of empathy, prizing his self-proclaimed sociopathic title and his razor sharp wit over the warmth of relationships, having no pressure points worth exploiting. But look how much you care about John Watson,” the low, ominous voice on the other side of the line taunted, twirling a gun around his index finger and was circling John Watson, who was strapped and bound to a chair. “You know, I thought this would’ve been harder Sherlock,” he said with a deep sigh and a sneer, “This is rather disappointing.”

“Let him go!” Sherlock roared through the telephone as he watches the screen. He could see everything that’s happening.  

This was not supposed to happen.

“I told you not to mess with me Sherlock. I told you to play by the rules. Why don’t you ever listen to anyone but yourself?”

“Whatever it is you want I’ll give it to you. Just please,” he pauses, he’s in big trouble now, he needs to fix this, “Let him go.”

“You already know what I want.”

“No, I don’t.”

He could hear the voice’s distant cackling, this was not a good sign, “Oh, Sherlock. You are slow.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve already won Sherlock.”

“What do you want?” he repeated with an angrier tone; he knew time was running out.

“I’ve already gotten what I wanted.”

“Then let him go.”

“But that’s not how the game works Sherlock. The victor always dictates the ending. And this,” he hears a gunshot fire, “is how it ends.”

The line disconnects, the screen turns blank.

The walls start to cave in.

The ground beneath him quakes.

He couldn’t breathe.

_John._

He banged on the screen with his closed fists, quietly muttering profanities under his breath, his eyes unable to fight back the tears.

No, he needed to pull himself together. He had to help him. He wasn’t dead.

He would not fail John Watson.

John Watson would not die on him.

He believed in him.

* * *

It’s been a long time since Sherlock had woken himself up with the sounds of his own screams, sweating profusely, drenched in his own perspiration.

The same goddamn nightmare, day in and day out.

If only it was just a nightmare, just a fabrication of his twisted mind.

That John would come running into the room, asking what the hell was happening, before telling him to shut up and to go back to sleep before returning back to his bed.

It was real, it happened.

There was absolutely no way of changing it.

* * *

He dialled Lestrade with shaky hands and a croaky voice.

“Lestrade… you’ve got to… help… John.”

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

“There’s been a shooting.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“John.”

“Where is he?”

“You’ve got to help me… find him.”

“Where are you?”

“Baker Street.”

“I’ll be right there.”

But that wasn’t quick enough.

No, he needed to find him.

There’s still time.

_John._

He ran out of his apartment; he didn’t care about wearing a coat or a scarf even though it was -6°c outside and thick blankets of snow on the empty roads.

He just ran.

* * *

Sherlock never cared for the solar system all too much; never fascinated by outer space and its entirety.

He didn’t care about any of it.

He only cared about the work.

But now, he didn’t even care about that.

He didn’t care at all.

* * *

He ran across London, searching for any sighting of the man he knew as John Watson; his eyes darting frantically across the place.

He still had faith in John Watson.

That he was still alive.

He’s crossed dozens of streets, and had about ten near-death encounters.

He just needed to find him.

_Please be alive._

Ten minutes had elapsed, no sign.

Fifteen minutes, no sign.

Just before he turned a corner, he heard a cry for help.

He recognized that voice.

_John._

“John!” he yelled in response.

“Sherlock,” a strained voice cried back.

He ran across the street, stopping traffic for the fifth time, eventually finding a bleeding man on his stomach, crawling his way out of an old building with what strength he had left in his arms.

“John!” he ran faster.

“Sherlock, I’m not…” John tries to speak but the words fail him.

“Yes, you will.”

“Sherlock…” He turns to lay on his back, being supported by Sherlock’s leg. He sees a bullet hole in the middle of John’s abdomen.

Reparable if immediate help was given.

He was too late.

He’s lost so much blood.

“Sherlock.”

“John, I’m calling an ambulance.”

“We both know I’m not going to make it in time.”

“No, you’re going to make it.”

“Sherlock.”

John was shaking, he couldn’t sit straight.

He was dying.

“John, stop talking. Save your energy.”

John grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer, “We both know that this’ll end in one of two ways,” he lets go of Sherlock’s collar before continuing, “Either I die here or in hospital.”

“John, stop thinking like that.”

“Jesus Sherlock, open your eyes!” he points to the bullet entrance in his stomach, “I’ve lost too much blood.”

He was extremely pale; absolutely no colour on his face; the red of his cheeks are gone. His breathing was slow.

No, this was not supposed to happen.

He has faith.

He has him.

He won’t let go.

* * *

“You know Sherlock, for someone as smart as you, you’re incredibly ignorant,” John says with a small, inaudible chuckle as he brings a hot cup of tea to his lips.

Sherlock was pacing, ruffling his hair. He was trying to solve a case, get his mind palace working, “Oh, just because I didn’t know that the sun rotated around the Eart-”

“Or the planets of the solar system.”

He stopped pacing and turned to face John, “That doesn’t matter to me!”

“But you learn that in primary school!” John interjected.

“So? I care about the work. And knowing the planets doesn’t affect nor influence the work in front of me. It’s an unnecessary clutter of information, which I don’t have the space to store.”

“And you wonder why you don’t have many friends.”

“Yet you’re still here,” Sherlock retorts back with a grin.

John couldn’t help but smile.

What he’d give to forget it.

* * *

“Sherlock.”

“John, you’ll be okay, the ambulance is coming. Just hang on.”

“Sherlock,” he’s struggling to talk.

“John, please.”

“Have you ever wondered about the stars Sherlock?”

“John.”

“I was reading,” he re-adjusted himself to face the sky, “this book about them.”

“Save your breaths John.”

“Aren’t they grand?”

“John.”

“I saw the stars at night every time I looked up in Afghanistan.”

“They’re nearly here, please.”

“And they were always there.”

“John, please.”

“Do you believe in anything, Sherlock?”

“Because this is really the time to learn more about me,” he said, with a sad laugh.

“Come on, humour a dead man.”

“No, I don’t believe in anything.”

“Don’t you ever wonder about how the world began?”

“I don’t care about that John.”

“Or if there are other worlds out there? Universes?”

“I don’t care about anything except getting you help.”

“We both know,” John groans, clutching his stomach, “that I’m not going to make it.”

“Yes, you will.”

“But that book said something about other universes as well,” he tried to sit up, but, having no strength left in his upper body, suddenly falls and is caught by Sherlock. John lies in Sherlock’s arms; he can’t move his lower body anymore.

“Shut up John.”

“It’s a great book though; food for thought.”

“You know what? If you get to the hospital, I might just read it,” he had to keep pleading. He couldn’t live without John Watson.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy it,” he was struggling to breathe now, “being the philosopher you are.”

“Oh god, are we still on about that?”

“Admit it, you are.”

“I’m really not.”

They both started laughing, stopping only when John coughs heavily.

“I’m going to miss all this,” John whispered, pensively.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“I haven’t looked up at the stars in years.”

“The ambulance will be here soon, please.”

“If I were in Afghanistan right now, I’d probably be looking up right now.”

“John, please.”

“God, they really are lovely.”

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, pushing back the tears that were threatening to come out, “This is my fault.”

“Don’t say that.”

“If I hadn’t told you to go out and-”

“No, not now.”

“I’m just… sorry.”

John pushes hard on the bullet wound.

He’s buying time.

“Shut up. Just shut up.”

“John.”

“You know, people are definitely going to start talking.”

“Why is that?”

“Come on, do you see us right now? We’re basically hugging.”

Sherlock quietly laughs. John reciprocates with a smile.

There’s so much left to be said.

“Please, don’t go.”

“You never needed me before Sherlock, you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t go.”

“Even if I didn’t, I won’t last.”

“Please.”

John’s words are slurring now; his eyes are getting heavier.

He’s slipping.

“There is so much that I haven’t done or said yet.”

The words hang in the air.

“This is why I’m getting you to a hospital.”

Both don’t have the courage to say it.

“I’d much prefer to die here than on a metal slab with tubes sticking out of me.”

They want to.

He knows this’ll be the last time he’ll ever talk to John Watson.

He’s not going to make it.

He lost his faith.

“John, if this is the last time we’ll ever have to talk, I might as well say it.”

John tries to tilt his head up to face him.

“No, don’t strain yourself.”

He has to say it.

But he can’t.

The words won’t come out.

For the first time in many years, Sherlock Holmes is speechless.

“Jesus, don’t leave me hanging.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s stuttering, what does he need to say? “I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

He gathers his breath again.

He has to say it.

“Did you know that for someone with your short stature, you’re heavier than you look?”

They both explode into a fit of laughter.

“You’re still a bloody cock,” John said, mockingly.

“You say such lovely things.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to say.

“Just tell everyone that I’ll miss them.”

Where are the ambulances?

“You’ll be okay.”

They both knew that he wasn’t talking to John.

Sherlock can hear the faint sounds of sirens.

_They’re nearly here._

_Please hold on._

“Did you know that stars often collapse under their own gravity?” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock squeezing it, “But we don’t observe them because we don’t hear them.”

“John, please. They’re here. Hang on. Please.”

_Please don’t go._

“God, I sound like I know what I’m talking about.”

“Shut up. Let them help you when they get here.”

The sirens were getting louder.

_Please don’t let go._

“People are just like stars, aren’t they Sherlock?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John beams a smile to Sherlock, he was teary-eyed, “Oh,” his words are so slurred, difficult to understand; “I think you know.”

John’s hand started to lose its grip.

No. Sherlock doesn’t know.

He feels for a pulse. On his wrist, on the side of his neck.  

He dug his fingers harder.

Nothing.

“John. John, come on. Tell me, what’s that supposed to mean?”

His hand was cold.

“Don’t leave me hanging. Not this time.”

The ambulance arrived.

“This isn’t funny anymore.”

People rushed out of the ambulance.

“Don’t leave me.”

They were too late.

“Please, John.”

There was no life in his eyes.

“John.”

His hand thudded to the ground.

He let go.

* * *

The nightmares are just like terrible records on replay, playing their horrendous symphonies, shattering the beautiful silence that found a home in his mind. 

He just wanted it to stop tormenting him.

He just wanted everything to stop.

He realized that he wasn’t going to get anymore sleep, besides, he was hungry. He sat up, feeling uneasy. He’s been lying down for quite a while.

He tries to stand up, but his legs fail him, tipping him over. He extends his arms out to balance himself before staggering towards the kitchen, looking down so that he doesn’t trip on anything. He attempts to find food in the fridge, but ends up finding two decapitated heads and three pairs of eyeballs wrapped in saran wrap.

He’s forgotten about those, wasn’t he doing an experiment on them?

Oh well, moment’s past.

He slams the fridge door shut, he’s already lost his appetite, and staggered back to the couch to sleep some more.

He’s too tired to function now.

It wasn’t the two of them against the rest of the world.

It was the rest of the world against him.

He settles back into his imprint on the couch, it was still warm. He draws his knees up and hugs them tightly, and turns to face the fireplace, feeling the nostalgia hit him like rain on a windowpane.

All the words that were never said plague Sherlock’s mind; declarations of anger, resentment, pride, friendship; love. All the moments that never happened became the bane of his existence. 

Manifesting in a future that broke Sherlock with its impossibility.

He was just about to drift off to sleep when a closed, dusty book on the table beside John’s chair catches his eye.

He’d never seen it before, or he’s never paid much attention, probably the latter. He once again sat and got up, walking over to the side table to collect the book, before returning to sit back on the couch. He blew off the dust and examined the front cover; the title was faded to the point of illegibility, the same can be said for the small circle-like design just below it. Judging from the colours, it’s a drawing of the Earth. The book itself was incredibly old and well-worn; cracked spine, torn edges, and surviving on one last staple to keep it all together.  

Perhaps this was the book John kept going on about.

It couldn’t hurt to read it; it’d be like honouring John’s last wishes.

He got into a more comfortable position, stretched out on the couch, and started to read.

* * *

**AUTOPSY: BCD13477A-MM8**

**DECEDENT:**   Dr John H. Watson

Autopsy performed by Hooper, Molly at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital on August 28, 2014 @ 2300 hours

**From the anatomical findings I ascribe the death to:**

EXCESSIVE LOSS OF BLOOD

**Due to or consequence of:** A BULLET SHOT TO THE LOWER ABDOMEN

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t read any more of the autopsy report, closing the folder and placing it down on the bench; it hurt too much.

Molly watched Sherlock as he skimmed through the document; briefly seeing anger, sadness, guilt and pain flick through his eyes for just a moment before being gone in an instant.

She needed to say something, but he doesn’t take sympathy well.

“Thank you for that Molly,” he said after a moment of silence.

“Sherlock, are you-”

“I am perfectly fine.”

“Are you su-”

“I don’t need the sympathy Molly,” he said in frustration; he’s been drowning in everyone’s pity for a week now.

“It’s okay to be sad Sherlock.”

He ignores the statement, “I’ll be off now.”

As he walks to the door, he feels Molly grab his arm and holds it firmly.

“You didn’t go to his funeral, why?”

No response.

“Okay. Fine, you don’t want to talk, I get it. Just promise me you’ll visit his grave, at least. You owe him that.”

He shakes Molly’s arm off, and storms out the hospital.

He didn’t want to go to John’s grave.

Because it means he’ll have to say goodbye.

Let go.

And he doesn’t want to do that.

Not to John Watson.

* * *

He ran.

He ran out of the apartment, hailed for a cab, and got them to drive straight to St Woolos Cemetery.

Where John was buried.

He had so much to say.

* * *

He stood in front of the black marble headstone.

In golden letters,

“In loving memory of John Watson,

Brother, son, friend.”

He knew what he needed to say.

* * *

 "You asked me if I believed in something. I stick by my answer. I don't believe in any form of a god. I don't believe that there is a Heaven or a Hell. I don't believe that by living a sin-free life and by believing in a so-called almighty entity, you'll be permitted into Heaven. Even if the notion of Hell was a reality, I wouldn't be extremely bothered to be welcome with open arms. I'm sure you could testify for that statement’s validity," he smiled. "You would've laughed at that."

He didn't want to say any more.

"But if I ever came close to believing in someone, I believed in you.”

It hurt too much. 

But he needed to. 

"I believed in you, John Watson. I believed that you would've kept yourself safe when you went out. I believed that even if you were hurt, you'd pull through. I believed that even if you knew you weren't going to make it, you'd let someone at least try to save you. I had you, John. I had you."

Tears formed in his eyes. 

"But believing isn't synonymous to resurrection; I'd still be alive and you'd still be dead." 

He knelt down, placing the bouquet of flowers he held in his hands in front of the tombstone.

"I read that book you kept rambling on about. Did you actually believe that it'll give me some sort of solace?"

He asked the question as if someone will answer.

"Because all I've learn is just a multitude of theories that I didn't need to know." 

He saw dust blanketing the tombstone. He wipes it away with his scarf. 

"But I remember you talking about all the different universes. What the hell was supposed to mean to me? Was I supposed to read it in the book? Either way, I did read it. ‘The Multiverse theory' as they so poetically put it. It outlined someone's bogus theory that there is more than just the universe we live in; that there is a universe for every single outcome of every single decision you make and will make."

"As stupid as it sounds, you can't help but think about it. And for the first time since the day you died, I’ve felt the enormity of your absence, because, assuming that this theory is plausible, there are other universes, existing right now, where you are still alive." 

The words hang in the air.

"There are universes where my decisions don’t eventuate in your death. There are universes where I am not constantly tormented by the guilt and the never-ending sense of pain that accompanies it. There are universes where I don't have to conjure up false futures to help me sleep at night."

He couldn't stop the tears. 

"And the common denominator for all these universes are that they still have futures that I would give all my tomorrows to live." 

His voice is quavering.

"There is a future where you'll walk through the door and we'd continue life as always; just the two of us against the rest of the world."

The words hang in the air.

"There is a future where I told you I felt."

The words fall. 

"There is a future where I can hold you in my arms without consequence. There is a future where we start a family, and we teach them everything we know. And maybe they'll end up having their own grandchildren, and they'll come over to our apartment, and we'd tell them the adventures we had as they doze off to sleep. There is a future where we'll grow old together, side by side, like it's always been."

"There are futures that exist because I had found the courage to tell you that I love you."

He kept wiping the tears away, but there was no use.

This was him letting go. 

"And you did know what you were talking about. With the stars I mean. You incoherently went on about them, I'm certain that it was just the delirium talking. But you asked me a question, and you thought that I knew the answer. Why would you assume that I had one? I won’t even know why.”

"Like you said, stars collapse under their own gravity, yet we don't observe or notice it happening because we can't hear them. There is no medium in space for sound to travel. We're similar to stars because we often collapse and implode under the enormity of just existing, and nobody can hear us crying for help since nobody listens.”

"I was a star, John. In your eyes, I must've been a big one. I tore myself apart for being different, and I made peace with the fact that I will never have friends. People didn't hear my cries for help because I hid behind the facade of a strong man; an arrogant man. Until you found me and repaired me, making me a better man." 

Sherlock looked up at the sky, it was getting dark, and a few stars were already visible.

“You said that every time you looked up at the sky when you were in Afghanistan, the stars were always there. And here they are now. I wonder if you’re one of them, and that every night, you’ll always be here.”

He felt his mind ease.

A sense of liberation overcame him.

  
"John. I am not a philosopher. I am your best friend.

And with the heart I’ve tried so hard to destroy,

With the heart you’ve done so much to save,

With the memories of you that live on in my mind,

With the words I’ve never told you when you were alive,

With the words that have haunted me until now,

I’m not afraid to say that

I will always love you, John Watson.”

  
He cupped his face in his hands, saying goodbyes through the tears he's held back for so long.

  
He let go. 

 

 


End file.
